


Piece By Piece

by Kookaburra42



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Plot(s), Avatar: The Last Airbender References, Dragons, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Half-orc, Healthy Relationships, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Melkor has a crush on Sauron, One-Sided Attraction, Poor Maedhros, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sauron Being an Asshole, Sauron does not do love, They need it, War, by that I mean the magic of the Connected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kookaburra42/pseuds/Kookaburra42
Summary: Maedhros is captured by Saruman after he is reembodied in Fangorn.  He is found by the Uruk-hai leader Lurtz, who sees him as a way out of Isengard for good.  Meanwhile, Maglor meets an extraordinary woman named Eowyn, who helps him reunite with his brother.  When their fates intertwine and Melkor gets involved, what will happen to the rest of Middle-earth?
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros & Maglor & Éowyn & Lurtz, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor & Sauron | Mairon, Sauron | Mairon & Thuringwethil, Talion/Lurtz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well okay! This is happening! This was originally intended as a trilogy, but it works better as one story arc, so that’s what’s happening. 
> 
> Edit: I went back and made some slight changes, which you might want to go over; they are VERY important to the characters they discuss.

In Mordor in the third age there were the Gratûz, those lords and ladies whom Sauron most trusted, and among them were the Nazgûl and the mighty generals of Mordor. But least of them in rank (and indeed not counted at all) was the Mouth of Sauron, for he was but a herald and the manager of the lesser works of Barad-dûr. No great deeds were accounted of him; that is, the Men and Orcs of Mordor sang not of him in their chants, nor traded stories of his deeds. 

Beyond all this he despises the three Assassins, for they, he believes, are weak in mind and strong in body only, and of them he hates and fears most Fauthagon of Gundabad. Fauthagon of all assassins in Mordor is the most fell, and none he is sent after escape the doom he brings. And the Mouth here fell short in cunning, for the Assassins of the Gratûz had learned swiftly he would spit at them and grumble, but would never strike. 

But if the Mouth hates the Assassins most, he hates the High General second most, for he believes that a mere woman usurped him. Thuringwethil Sauroniel is however no mere woman of Men, taught to be swift to cower and plead; she won her place through strength of body and mind, and through the teachings of her father and brother, Sauron and Draugluin.

Of her knowledge she passed much to her younger sibling, Haldasúlë, who became Sauron’s heir, and they were not counted as one of the Gratûz, and thus they remained thirteen only. 

And so the Mouth brooded and wished for the eye of his Master to fall upon him. He waited in the shadows for many a year, lurking and wishing, and his heart was turned to fell things, and an ancient evil saw its chance…

* * *

At that time Melkor was released from the Void, for knowing now the torment of his reign he had begged forgiveness and was released into Valinor. He went and was glad, for Valinor was fair and good.

He went whither he would and wandered far from the Valar, finding joy in the cool shadows of dusk beneath the mountains and the steaming heat of molten rock. For a time, then, he was glad, and sang to the metal and shadow, as were his domain. 

Even as this time passed, he tired and laid down to sleep. He slept for sixty long years of Men, and during that time was covered in a blanket of ravens, who tended him. When at last he woke, he went to Taniquetil to seek an audience with Manwë his brother. 

“Why hast thou come to me?” said Manwë, and, perceiving his brother’s unrest rose and came closer to him. 

“Thou shalt know now that in my slumber I dreamt of a time when the world would burn and then be quenched and silent forever. I hath seen the cold iron of the torments yet to come and heard the pleas of the Children. This time, I perceive, will come soon.” Melkor gazed out over Taniquetil, and it seemed to Manwë that a great weight was upon him, as though all the world rested on his shoulders. 

“Brother, it has been long since you have Seen, and yet I perceive that you see true, for there is much weight upon you, and in your eyes there is grave sadness. Go with Varda, my consort, and bring tidings to Sauron, whom you love, for I sense that this concerns him greatly.”

They parted for that time, and so it was that Melkor came to Mordor with Varda, Queen of the Stars. There the black gates of Barad-dûr were opened for them, and the thirteen Lords and Ladies of the Gratûz were called to order. 

“These tidings you bring are grave,” Sauron said when Melkor has finished speaking, “and yet we See that you have yet more to bring to us.” 

“You think not wrongly,” came Melkor’s reply, “for indeed, there is more to be said. I have foreseen a great tragedy, yes, that is true, but there are some yet valiant enough to stay this horror.”

“And who left in Middle-earth are valiant enough to destroy what is coming?” Sauron asked, and all present perceived he both dreaded and wished for the answer. 

“There is an ancient rite, long forgotten in the wheels of time,” said Varda. “Those valiant and true enough to be chosen shall be sought out, and they will be our hope. They will be Connected above all to Arda, and shall not leave until its end, but they shall be Connected by Melkor, and he will give them great power.”

It was at this moment that Melkor spoke once more, saying, “I can see your torment and know it, yet has a time truly come when Thû the lord of Mordor forsakes his allies and breaks all ties? Or shall his forces rain upon the enemy once more in honor and wrath?” 

“They shall rain,” said Sauron, “but it will be with prying eyes and hidden whispers.” 

And so it came to pass that Mordor and Valinor joined in a great alliance, and many were pleased. 

Yet in the deep darkness of Barad-dûr, something had awoken, and it is there we begin our story.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evil cliffhanger is evil! And I did for the record attempt to write like Tolkien in the prologue. Comments would be great; they give me motivation!


	2. Time and Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manwë and Melkor have a talk, Lurtz struggles, Maedhros attempts to help him while also helping himself, Sauron and Haldasúlë face a problem, and Talion wishes he was anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh this one was hard and long and annoying but I did it! Enjoy!

Melkor’s idea of meditation was…unorthodox. He would dance around, eyes unfocused, feet brushing the ground lightly, everything slow and calm. Yet he never sat still, as did many of the Valar. 

It was this way that Manwë found him, on the bank of a stream, shadowed by the trees and lit by the reflections of sun off the water. Clearing his throat softly, Manwë stepped forward. 

“Brother?” He let his voice carry on the breeze, quiet and gentle. Melkor froze and with a low cry gathered his ravens close. 

“What is it?” Melkor said. His eyes, narrow, suspicious and so hauntingly like Manwë’s own, pierced the other Vala to the spirit. They seemed to see everything, even if Manwë knew that only Sauron lord of Mordor had that ability (when he thought to use it). 

“I merely wish to talk,” Manwë replied. “I was wondering how you were doing.” 

“Well, if weary. I find myself tired greatly and wish to rest, yet I fear what I will see. I am attempting to put my thoughts in order to decide what to do.” 

“Might I join you?” 

“Of course.” Melkor went back to his dancing, and Manwë began to sing, a song of thought and contemplation. 

Eventually, they stopped and sat on the bank together. “Manwë,” Melkor said at last, in a quiet tone so that none but his brother would hear him, “I have made up my mind. I must stay in the waking world and go to Isengard, for there are two there who I have Seen, who have the valiance and mindfulness needed for this perilous Quest.” 

“That place is cursed with darkness and cruelty, Melkor. But I see that your mind is made up and that you will not be swayed from this path. Therefore you will go and call upon those there who might be strong enough in mind and body to withstand the power you will give to them. Go now, I say, for dusk approaches, and in the shadows of night will your strength be greatest. Then also will Varda protect you, and you will be safe” 

Melkor stood and made for himself black wings, which would carry him across Ekkaia. He exchanged farewells with his brother and left, leaving Manwë to ponder all that had happened, and what was to come. 

A silence then fell over the clearing, and not even the slightest breeze blew. 

* * *

The sickness burned through Lurtz’s throat and he coughed violently, sending black blood and grey ashes spraying over the frosted ground. 

_Can’t let no one see. No one can see, no one can know…_

He coughed again, this time more of a retch. Less blood. More ash.   
  


**_Let it out,_ ** the voice in his head whispered. **_Let it out._ **

_Let what out?_ he thought, now doubled over in pain. _The blood? The ash? What?_

No answer. Of course there wasn’t, because Void forbid spirits make any attempt to give a straight answer. 

Again. More blood. Less ash. His throat was burning, he was sweating like mad. He was dying, which is what he’d always wanted--but not now. 

It’d been like that for a month. Lurtz got sick, he hid it, he went on with his life for around two days, and then it happened again. 

This time, he was too close to Isengard. Normally, he’d be on patrol, watching the forest for anything out of the ordinary. Far away from Isengard, he was safe, safe to collapse and cough up his lifeblood into the dirt. 

He reached for Dryhtlic’s reins and pulled himself up onto the saddle. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself than the horse. “Just a little further.” He urged Dryhtlic into a steady trot and tried to regain his composure. If the wizard found out, he’d wind up dead or worse. Whatever. He didn’t have much to live for anyway. 

Isengard was close enough that he was there within the hour. Lurtz dismounted and turned towards the stables, only to be stopped by the last person he wanted to see. The wizard’s grovelling lackey, Wormtongue, who was good for nothing but whimpering and lying about things he had no business knowing in the first place. 

That was what had killed the only person Lurtz had ever tried to love. That was what had made him build walls so thick he couldn’t let them down if he tried. Fangs bared, ears pressed against his skull, he glared at the little maggot and poured all the hatred he could into a single glance. _If looks could kill,_ he thought ruefully. 

“Your master wishes to see you,” Wormtongue snivelled. Well. It must be important if the Worm was sent to get him. 

He stabled Dryhtlic fast and stalked towards Orthanc, his pace quick enough that Wormtongue struggled to keep up with him. 

Orthanc, a tower of black stone, seemed more intimidating at night, looming over the rest of Isengard. It always felt like it was saying that it was far superior to the inhabitants it cast its hideous shadow over. 

Ears as far back as they could physically be, Lurtz set foot in the tower. _Time to meet my maker._

Saruman was waiting for him. He held a torch, which was odd, as Orthanc was well lit, even in the middle of the night. 

“Come,” Saruman said. He turned and walked off. Careful not to overtake the wizard, Lurtz followed him. 

They wound up in a room Lurtz had never seen before. He flexed his claws nervously when he heard the door lock and realized that there was no one there but him, the wizard, and Wormtongue. 

Suddenly, the wizard flung the torch at him and he screamed, feeling searing agony race through his veins. The fire was everywhere, both consuming and creating, and then, suddenly, it became _part_ of him and he part of it. 

_I am fire. I am death. Become my kindred, and I shall not slay you._ The words echoed through him and suddenly everything turned brighter and he could feel _everything._

_The burning fires of Mount Doom._

_The flames of the Balrogs._

_The fire of the Elves._

_I am all of those things. And more._

The ultimate truth of this leant him strength and he flung the fire at Wormtongue, who screamed and doubled back in horror as his clothes burned. 

_I AM FIRE._

And then there was nothing.

* * *

Maedhros watched the unconscious Uruk for a while. When it started to stir, he whispered, “Are you all right?” 

It lifted its head. _Like me. It’s got one of those infernal collars, too._ “He set me _on fire,_ so no, I’m _not_ all right,” the Uruk growled, its (no, his, it was definitely male) voice a deep rumble. 

“I can understand that,” Maedhros said, wincing as he shifted. 

The Uruk huffed out what could be a laugh or a grunt. Either way, it didn’t hate him. Good. That meant he would have someone to talk to. “What’s your name?” the Uruk asked. 

“My name is Maedhros.” A simple answer for a simple question. It didn’t matter who knew his name anyway. He’d be here for the rest of his miserable life. 

“Mine’s--” here the Uruk stopped and winced, as if struggling not to say something, “Stêorlêas.” 

“Stêorlêas.” Maedhros tested the name on his tongue and realized it sounded…off. “You aren’t fond of that name.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t want to use the name I like. I probably won’t hear it ever again, so--” Stêorlêas shrugged. Maedhros guessed, based on what he’d seen of the Uruk, that he was around the same height as Stêorlêas, if a bit taller. 

_Impressive. Hopefully, we won’t have to fight; after so long, I doubt it would be an easy victory._

“Well,” Maedhros said, shaking those thoughts from his head, “I would like to know it.” 

“It’s Lurtz.” The Elf turned the name around in his mind. It sounded _right,_ like a beloved nickname given by a family member or--oh. 

“Someone you cared about gave you that name.” Again, it wasn’t a question. 

“Yeah. My sis--” Lurtz cut himself off and ducked his head, his dark, braided hair hiding his face. 

“You have a sister?” 

“Had. Oh, what the fuck, you may as well know. She’s younger, name’s Syllbesellan. Hope she isn’t dead.” 

“Maybe she isn’t.”

“Maybe.” They both stopped talking after that, but it was more for lack of words than anything. It was nice, Maedhros thought, to be able to _talk_ to someone. 

* * *

Sauron watched Haldasúlë listening to their crows. This wasn’t uncommon for them--sitting in silence, simply going about their days--but Haldasúlë’s increasing worry as each messenger crow delivered its message and then fluxed back to being part of their hair was certainly new. 

“Atar,” Haldasúlë said, their hair now fully black, all of the crows having finished delivering their messages, “there is something changing. Something I have never seen--what is this?” They lifted a pale hand slowly, showing a tendril of darkness held in their fist. It twisted around and lunged for Sauron, who dodged its advance and hissed, ears back. 

  
“What is _that,_ pray tell?” Sauron asked, arching a brow. Haldasúlë scowled, two of their eyes narrowed in concentration while the third glared at Sauron. They twisted their index finger and the darkness wrapped around it. 

“I am uncertain. My _melda ettirno_ do not know either. They say that strange things have begun happening, that people have begun to bleed white and that their eyes turn white as well. It is…irritating to me.” 

“Silence. Did you say white _blood_ ?” Sauron turned around, touching his scarred throat gently. _Melkor, dripping white blood to the floor, laughing maniacally as his blue eyes drained to chalk white._ “Do you suppose they have been--no. It is likely a rogue sorcerer. Do not act, _onya,_ but watch those affected. Tell me everything immediately.” 

Haldasúlë’s blood red lips twisted into a devious smile. Their body collapsed in on itself, transforming from a eerie-looking Elf to a murder of crows in the blink of an eye. 

“Don’t worry, dear father,” Haldasúlë’s disembodied voice purred. “I shall do so at once.” 

With that, they were gone. 

* * *

Celebrimbor’s laughter still rang in his ears, the way he’d laugh when Talion begged for mercy, when Talion did anything but succumb to the torture Celebrimbor put him through. 

He wasn’t tied up. It wasn’t needed. He’d stopped struggling and given up hope. Once in a while, Celebrimbor showed him a mirror, showed him his veins turning black, the faded look in his eyes. 

He’d stopped calling Celebrimbor “Celebrimbor”, or anything, really. When forced, he’d choke out, “my lord,” or “master,” if the Elf felt particularly vain, but other than that, he wasn’t allowed to speak. 

All he knew anymore was the pain, the screaming, the occasional taunt and that one warchief who’d call him beautiful and laugh before kissing him hard on the mouth and leaving. 

Everything was torture, so Talion did nothing. _Caw._ He turned his head, ignoring the crow. No point. Nothing would happen if he paid it attention. 

* * *

_Well. I’ve never seen this one before. Whose fortress is this, I wonder? It changes hands a great deal--quite weak. He looks dead, but he’s breathing. Hmm…_

Onward Haldasúlë flew, their eyes fine-tuned to everything around him. 

_Normal, normal, pale blue eyes…interesting, but not unheard of._ This area seemed normal and yet they could See the rot at its core. 

_Whoever owns this fortress is very, very unusual._ Off he went again. 

* * *

Talion ignored everything until a familiar voice interrupted his…well, nothing. “Oy, ranger. You dead yet?” Ratbag--oh thank the Valar, someone who wasn’t under Celebrimbor’s control. 

“No,” he whispered. His voice was raspy from disuse, and he winced at the sound. 

“Good. Good. Look, the cranky wraith’ll be gone for a couple o’ days, and I’m supposed to make sure you don’t die. _Please_ don’t die. You don’t deserve to die like this. And anyway, you’re kind of…well, my friend. Anyway. I brought you water.” 

Ratbag’s hand tilted his head to drink, and Talion did, grateful someone still cared. 

“I missed--” he coughed, “you.” 

“I missed you too, ranger.” Ratbag’s yellowish eyes were kind. Talion mustered a weak smile. 

At this point, any sort of kindness would do. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha angst! Leave a comment and motivate a me!
> 
> Have a nice week! 
> 
> \- Neely


	3. Wild Goose Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talion, tortured and miserable, has a question for his captor, Maedhros and Lurtz hatch a plot, Haldasúlë goes to Cirith Ungol, and Sauron does politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right on schedule! Hope you enjoy! I made Haldasúlë nonbinary, so go back and see how that “feels” with the story. Please let me know if I’ve messed something up or if I handled it well! I’m not used to working with nonbinary characters. 
> 
> TW: torture, mental instability, and people threatening to kill each other.

Every crack of the whip against his scarred back made him wince and grunt. He would not scream. He would not scream, not even when Celebrimbor killed his only remaining friend and ally. Not when he cauterized the wounds he made on the ranger’s body with a filthy knife. Not when the wraith’s sick laughter filled his head until he couldn’t think of anything else. 

_I will not give in. I will not scream. That is all I have left._ All he had…what a twist. Talion, one half of the Bright Lord, ranger of the Black Gate, was reduced to fighting not to scream when someone tortured him. 

He missed the days when Celebrimbor didn’t know who he was, when they were from. He missed Eltariel, and poor Ratbag, even Brûz. There was no one to help him now, to bring him to life again. 

_If I die now, will I die forever?_ he thought absently. The whip cracked again. _43 lashes. He’s done with that. Time for him to pretend to heal me._

The white hot knife seared his back and he bit his lip until he was afraid that would bleed too. 

_If I bleed, he’ll pretend to fix it. If I die, he’ll just throw me away._ So he gritted his teeth and ignored the Elf’s taunts until he couldn’t anymore. 

“You pathetic little worm. Get the deadscrew off your face, you look like you’re about to pitch sick!” The Mordorian slang just made everything worse, especially coupled with Celebrimbor’s condescending tone. 

“I’m not--I’m not--” 

“Not what? Pathetic? About to pitch sick? You are both, I can tell. Do you miss your friend? Is that it?” Celebrimbor laughed harder, his blank, white eyes somehow malevolent in their own right. 

“Please,” Talion rasped, even though it was useless to beg. “Stop. Why are you doing this?” 

“Oh, Talion, Talion, Talion. Don’t you know? I’m having a little bit of _fun,”_ the Elf spat. He stood up, slapped Talion across the face, and stalked off. 

Only then did Talion vomit. Only then did he let himself cry. 

_Someday, I will get my revenge. Someday._

Today, evidently, was not that day. 

-

Haldasúlë perched on a branch, their crows having come back to being their Elf body. Using their third eye, they looked behind them. There was no one there, fortunately. 

They steepled their fingers and twined a leg around the tree trunk. Looking down with his other two eyes, they noticed someone staring up at them. _NO._ They flung out their shadows and erased the person’s memory. They would only recall a fleeting glimpse of a bird, and perhaps wonder why they hadn’t attempted to catch it. They disassembled again and fled. 

The crows cawed and swooped, looking to all the world like a normal murder. Yet Haldasúlë was each one of them, and they were each Haldasúlë. 

They decided to watch out for any activity with one of their strangest subjects. The Orc was running towards Cirith Ungol, where--

  
Their heart plummeted. Thuringwethil was in Cirith Ungol, having pulled back from Osgiliath. _No, no, NO!_

They picked up the chase, adrenaline propelling them faster, faster. _I must protect her. I must. She is my sister, my kindred, my mentor._

They let out an ear shattering screech and the murder of crows dove as one. They lifted the Orc high into the air as it shouted and fought. _What is happening?_

Their white eyes were blank, their ears unmoving, which was odd. Haldasúlë had never seen an Orc that couldn’t or didn’t move their ears. None of this made any sense whatsoever. 

They moved faster, the Orc still struggling against the crows. _How odd. They should have stopped by now. I have never hurt something directly._

Cirith Ungol was full of activity. No one paid the least attention to them, except to bow or nod respectfully when they recognized him. They watched each of them carefully, checking for signs of the sickness, as they called it. 

When none were found in anyone, they continued on their way to meet their sister. 

She, at least, would understand what was happening. 

-

If anyone found out that Lurtz and Maedhros had been talking, they were absolutely fucked. All right, so Lurtz was probably more fucked than Maedhros because he wasn’t an Elf and he definitely wasn’t royalty (he was almost positive Maedhros was). 

“Are you well?” Maedhros asked. He sounded worried. 

“‘M fine.” The reassurance only made Maedhros more agitated, it seemed; he was shifting around, probably with that look that meant ‘I am going to fuss now.’ It’d only been a week since they had met, and yet somehow they knew each other that well. 

“No, you are not. I can hear it in your voice. You are alarmed about something.”   
  


He was right, because of course he was. “Yeah, I’m blade-eyed. I’ve been here a week, and you ain’t thinkin’ that somethin’s off?” 

  
“What do you mean?” 

“I _mean,_ he shoulda killed me by now. Makes me think he’s up to somethin’, and it ain’t anything good. We gotta get out of here, and we gotta do it _soon._ ” 

“How exactly do you plan to do this? We have no weapons, no armor, and certainly not any powers of any kind--” Maedhros hissed. 

“Then why the _hell_ was I able to set someone on fire without even touching them?” Lurtz turned towards the Elf, teeth bared. 

“It is my belief that that is what these infernal collars are to prevent. Any use of the elements is impossible with them on.” 

“Then we break them _off,”_ Lurtz snarled. Maedhros’ eyes lit up. 

“Yes. Then we break them off. Then what?” he said. 

“Once they’re off, getting out’ll be simple. Metal’s made by fire, right? But it’s also part of the earth, which I’m pretty sure is your thing.” 

“Then we take back whatever was stolen from us, and, I suppose, find ourselves horses.” 

“Hopefully my horse.” 

“Yes, hopefully. I will make do with whatever I can find. We must, of course, make sure we find some sort of person to help us.” 

“Syll will do it.” 

“If what you have told me of her is true, then of course she will.” They exchanged looks. This was going to be _easy._

-

_Left, right, block, parry, right, back, forward, parry._ Éowyn grunted with effort, feeling sweat drip from her forehead and sting her eye. 

She’d been training for at least three hours, memorizing each pattern of movement again and again. Despite the fact that it was cold out, she was sweating like mad, her hair sticking to her neck and face. 

She stopped after another thirty minutes and sheathed her sword. She had duties to see to besides swinging a sword. Quickly, Éowyn grabbed her dress and changed behind a curtain. 

Meduseld was quiet. Too quiet. Her senses were alert for Wormtongue; she didn’t know _how_ her uncle trusted him. She heard footsteps and whirled around. 

No one was there. Odd. Thankfully, if someone _was_ there, she had a knife in her belt. Comforted by the thought, she continued down the hall. 

More footsteps. “All right, who are you?” she snapped, whirling around with the knife in her hand. The person behind her stepped out of the shadows and she nearly dropped her weapon. “You’re an Elf,” Éowyn hissed. 

The Elf shrugged and tilted his head, letting dark hair fall over his shoulder to reach to his waist. His grey eyes betrayed the slightest hint of nervousness. “Yes,” he said, voice a silvery tenor. “I am an Elf. And you are a woman.” 

“Congratulations, you aren’t blind,” she snarled. 

“I could say the same to you.” 

“Give me your name,” Éowyn said, holding the knife closer to his throat. 

“It is Maglor, good lady,” he replied, “And yours?” 

“I don’t have to say.” 

“I would like to learn the name of the woman who has me at knifepoint.” Maglor looked like he was laughing at her, almost. 

“Éowyn,” she snapped. She walked around to stand behind him, keeping the knife at his throat. “Move.” 

-

Sauron’s fingers twitched on the armrest of his chair. On his left was a tall man with long, straight black hair, a scar across the right side of his mouth, dark skin, and black eyes. He was stone faced and just as twitchy as Sauron was, though that was _because_ Sauron was twitchy. “Khamûl,” Sauron said quietly, “irn-âmul.” 

“Akh, goth-izub,” the second of the Nazgûl replied just as quietly. 

“Please, speak so we may understand,” the man at Sauron’s right said. The ambassador from Rhûn, Somral, Sauron thought his name was, was portly, bearded, and jovial, where Khamûl was tall, clean-shaven, and serious. Though they were of the same country, they could not have been more different. 

“I apologize,” Sauron rasped, glad for once of his destroyed voice. “This is the first time Khamûl has interacted with one of his kinsmen in decades.” 

“Decades? He looks maybe twenty years, twenty-five at most!” The other ambassadors laughed and Sauron could feel Khamûl itch to cut their throats, to attack in a blur of steel and wild laughter. 

“I am one of the Nazgûl,” Khamûl muttered, just loud enough that it would be heard by those seated at the table. 

“I apologize, then, my lord! You seem so young for such a burdened being,” Somral replied, reaching for his goblet of wine. 

_How is that little bastard so carelessly cheerful all the time?_ Sauron thought, thinking of the way the Easterlings of Khamûl’s time had acted, when they had been straight-faced and honorbound. Perhaps even then people like this had existed, if a closeted minority. 

  
“All is forgiven.” Somral smiled wider and raised his glass at the Nazgûl, who copied the motion. 

“Then, my lord, it would not trouble you to hear that there are many who suspect you of being the Witch-King’s lover?” another ambassador, one named Bramrig this time, interjected. 

Sauron nearly spat his drink onto the table. “I…I beg your pardon?” he snapped. 

“Is it true?” Somral asked, leaning forward. “Have you lain together?” 

“I will neither confirm nor deny this accusation,” Khamûl spat, his eyes flashing. “I would hope that in public you stay your tongue, or you may find the crows yet come for you.” 

The silence that came after that was so thick you could have stabbed it. 

After dinner, there was some sort of dance that, thankfully Sauron was not required to participate in. The music seemed determined to be slow and seductive and the ambassadors seemed determined to cause something. 

Sauron found out what when, at the song’s climax, Khamûl and the Witch-King were forced to dance together. He had to force himself to not set anything on fire when he saw it. 

Fortunately, before anything could happen, the song changed to one of the old songs from Angband, which were all full of rolling chants and wild stomping. Suddenly, any who weren’t from Mordor were at odds with the natives, who could sing ‘The Storm’ down to the last word and had the steps memorized. 

Sauron had to smirk the instant Fauthagon sent Bramrig reeling and sputtering away to sulk against a wall. _Outdone by an Orc._ Said Orc then moved on to partner with Khamûl, who seemed almost a little too eager to be dancing with him. 

The ambassadors were left stunned when the two of them left together soon after, which was rather gratifying. Those idiots had been on Sauron’s nerves all day and now they would be forced to apologize to Khamûl and look him in the eyes after this. 

Even more gratifying was that they struggled the rest of the night. While the high ranking of Mordor and even those few commoners who were there flew through the steps of even the hardest of dances, the ambassadors fought to keep up even with the simplest of reels. 

Sauron eventually joined in and wound up dancing with one of them. It was a rather slow song and his very flustered dance partner (was it Nektast?) complimented him on everything from his crown to his easy dancing. 

All in all, it was a rather satisfying experience. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (adding Haldasúlë’s name because I forgot to translate it last chapter: 
> 
> Haldasúlë - quenya “halda” (shadowed) + “súlë (spirit/soul). So their name means “shadowed spirit.” It’s pronounced Hahl-dah-sue-lay, in case anyone wasn’t sure. 
> 
> Irn-âmul - black speech “irn-” (remain/stay) + “âmul” (calm). Lit. remain calm.
> 
> Akh, goth-izub - black speech “akh” (yes) + “goth” (lord) + “-izub” (my). English translation: “yes, my lord.” 
> 
> Slang terms:
> 
> Deadscrew- grimace
> 
> Pitch sick - throw up
> 
> Just as a reminder, comments will increase my motivation, so leave one! Seriously, people, it will also be great if you have me constructive criticism because I’m thirteen and still improving! Until next time!
> 
> \- Neely


	4. Into the Deep Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about what Talion is going through. Meanwhile, Sauron does some research and Maedhros and Lurtz begin the process of escape. We also meet Thuringwethil for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pretends that an extra thousand words of chapter is going to make up for at least three weeks of absence* Sorry this one took me so long! I struggled a lot with it and I’m still not quite happy with where it is, but hopefully it’s not too bad. 
> 
> WARNING: Descriptions of torture and intense depression, as well as suicidal thoughts and mentions of past abuse.

Talion was asleep. Fortunately, it was dreamless--the few dreams he had were all eerie, full of screams and a voice that sounded strangely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. As of now, there was only darkness and peace, and a strange feeling of control. 

He was ripped from that calming nothing by voices--no, feelings--in his head. _Worry-calm-death-life-pick-choose-son-daughter-compare-contrast-take-take-take…_

_GIVE._

And then sleep was gone and he jolted awake, gasping for breath and struggling to stay out of his head. A year or even two months ago he would have pondered the meaning of the feelings and why they felt so familiar. Now? Now his only thought was to curl up and wait for Celebrimbor’s inevitable arrival. 

He lay back against the wall, trying to relax. If he stayed tense like this, Celebrimbor would do worse things to him than if he acted calm. 

He let himself slip into reminiscence, the thought of his life _before_ his _akash-slaium._ Before Celebrimbor… 

_Ioreth laughed and wrapped her arms around him. “Do they really sing that?”_

_“Apparently. I was on patrol and a group of Orcs started shrieking it at me! Who knew Orcs liked men; next thing, they’ll be carrying off our sons as well as our daughters!”_

_Ioreth laughed harder. “I hope they don’t carry you off, too!”_

_Talion laughed too, at that. “Imagine if they learned my name--there’d be a song about my arse within minutes!”_

_They both collapsed into howls, and when the nine-year-old Dirhael asked what it was they were laughing about, they laughed even harder._

The memory calmed his frayed nerves a bit, but it also made him long for the days when he didn’t have Celebrimbor breathing down his neck every minute. 

“Well, hello, _âmbal-ash_ ,” a very familiar voice purred. Well. Speak of the devil, and he will appear. “Have you slept well?” 

Talion didn’t answer, instead just looking at the floor. 

_“ANSWER ME!”_ Celebrimbor snarled, suddenly right in front of him. Talion winced. 

“I slept well,” he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse. 

“You slept well, _what_?” 

“I slept well, my lord.” 

“Good. Get up and face me, you weak human. I fail to see how you _ever_ defeated _anyone_ \--oh wait. That’s right.” A smirk appeared on the wraith’s face, now so close to Talion’s he could smell his breath. 

_It smells of death and decay,_ he thought. Celebrimbor must have heard or guessed, unfortunately, and a second later Talion’s head rang from a harsh slap to the face. “Insolence is intolerable. Thinking such things, and about _me_ no less, is deserving of some sort of punishment.” Talion flinched back, but Celebrimbor grabbed his hair and yanked him forward again. “Do not think you have a say in this, filth. I will give you to Narbâkum, and you _will. Not. Resist._ ” 

The words were said with a crushing, binding finality and Talion went limp. He felt the wraith’s spell take hold, and knew there was no escape. 

_How far the mighty have fallen._

Little did he know that his thoughts were echoed by someone far younger than he.

It was late when the spell released him, and the pain and misery came flooding back. He was, at least, not filthy--he vaguely remembered someone cleaning him off. 

He didn’t dare wonder how it could be worse, for he had a feeling it could get far worse, and fast. He curled up into a ball, wishing suddenly for something he couldn’t name. A feeling, he realized: the feeling of someone caring and understanding, the feeling of safety he hadn’t felt since he had first married Ioreth. 

And it hurt. It hurt to think of, it hurt to even remember. He didn’t get to feel like that anymore, because, as Celebrimbor had been quick to point out, he didn’t deserve to.

He’d killed thousands _(brothers son fathers husbands friends),_ he’d nearly murdered an innocent child because of who their father was, and he’d likely done more than that.

_If you were truly evil, you wouldn’t think like that._ He brushed the thought aside as foolishness, and yet it tumbled to his soul, firmly rooting where it had no place being.

He felt sick with the torment of it and coughed weakly. He hadn’t eaten in three days--there would be nothing there to come up but bile. 

Talion felt a wail of pain and utter misery rise in his throat and he shoved it down as best he could--

It burst out anyway, rising to a crescendo and sending the people nearby into fits of misery-- _they can feel it, they can know what it is they have done to him, they can die with him, they_ **_will_ ** _die with him--_ and just like that it was over. 

With a desperate, furious cackle, Talion threw himself to the ground and fell into a deep, hard sleep. 

The next morning his first thought was, _Quite a sad thing I’m not dead yet, really._ The voice that thought this was so prim and irritating he almost laughed again, but then decided against it. The scream had been bad enough. Celebrimbor would hear of it, of that he was sure, and it would be best to _not_ add to the coming torment. 

The door creaked open and Talion jolted, then relaxed. “Don’t worry,” the Orc muttered, “you ain’t gonna be leavin’ this room for a while. Damn Nazgûl’re everywhere. Those siblings; the blind one and the mute one’re after the Bright Lord, y’know.” 

“Whuh?” 

“Yeah, that’s what we all said. You know the Olog, Brûz I think his name is? He’s a traitor--ran off to Barad-dûr.”  
  


Talion tried to hide his interest. “Why am I not surprised?” he said. This Orc wasn’t so bad; a bit of a barker, but otherwise not cruel. 

“ _No one_ was. The boss is…well, you know. Right now, I’m s’posed to feed you, and then make sure you don’t bash your head open or somethin’ like that.” He handed Talion a plate and a fork, then sat back and watched as he ate.

The food was simple, just some kind of dried meat and bread, washed down with stale water, but it felt like a feast to Talion’s starved stomach. 

He finished quickly, afraid that if he ate too slowly it would be taken away. He edged back and curled up in the corner where he’d slept last night. The Orc groaned. “Hey, don’t be like that. I don’t wanna hurt you--blood makes me sick, and I’d wager if you lost any more you’d die.” 

“Then why’d you join the army?” 

  
“I was stupid. Thought it’d make my parents proud: didn’t, ‘specially not when my kid brother impressed the Dark Lord and got a title to go with it. Oh, and he’s really fuckin’ hot, so.”

“I cannot say I share your troubles.”

“Yeah, bet you had a perfect life ‘fore this whole mess happened.” 

“No, I mean I have no siblings.” Talion shrugged. 

“Any other family?” 

“I had a wife and son.” 

“What hap--actually, don’t tell me.” They sat in silence for a while, and Talion found he didn’t mind it so much. 

Of course, nothing lasts forever, and sooner or later, the Nazgûl departed and Talion was forced back into an endless cycle of torture and misery.

After a week of this, he was finally allowed to collapse again. He pitched sick, this time heaving up something other than bile. Again and again he retched, again and again he heard laughter from the Orcs passing by. 

He didn’t care, didn’t know if he should care anymore, and he felt something break inside him--but whether it was imagined or real he could not tell. 

_Let me die,_ he begged the Valar, or Iluvatar, or whoever else might hear his prayers for deliverance. 

Evidently, no one heard.

-

Despite what many would say, Sauron was not particularly upfront about anything. If there was a way to avoid mass chaos and distraction, he would take it. 

He had designed Barad-dûr in this same spirit; a fortress built spiraling into the sky and riddled with passageways that enabled him to sneak around and elude detection.

He was in one of those passages now, a torch held in his hand. The light flickered off the walls in a way that, if anyone were behind or in front of him, would make him seem…ghoulish.

To be fair, he already _was_ rather ghoulish: thirteen and a half feet of muscle, pale skin, black veins, scars, and red eyes. His hair, jet black and reaching to his mid back, was pulled back severely in a sort of half-up, half-down style. Add in the enormous, black-feathered wings, which when extended were twice his height, and he left quite an impression. 

But now he was alone, and in the dim light of the torch he hurried through the tunnel towards his goal; an old sketchbook-journal. It dated back to Angband and was one of his most detailed. 

For centuries, he’d kept it under lock and key, afraid that its secrets would be spilled if he kept it in the observatory atop Barad-dûr 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Akash-slaium- Orcish “akash” (half) + “slaium” (life). 
> 
> Âmbal-ash- Orcish “âmbal” (pretty) + “ash” (one). Celebrimbor is a jerk, okay?
> 
> Also, slang terms: 
> 
> Barker - someone who talks a lot
> 
> So, how was it? I hope it wasn’t too bad. Please leave a comment; I would love to hear from you guys! 
> 
> See you (hopefully) soon!
> 
> \- Neely


End file.
